


thick skin & an elastic heart

by orphan_account



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Eating Disorders, Hemochromatosis, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Conditions, Mental Health Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Yang Jeongin | I.N-centric, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-08 01:40:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19097152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It’s hard to be an idol.It’s even harder to be an idol when you have a life threatening medical condition.Jeongin has Hemochromatosis; his blood has too much iron. It’s not a big deal as long as he receives proper treatment. Due to the busy and stressful life of an idol, Jeongin is unable to receive help, and thus, takes matters into his own hands.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Blood(ied) Lines](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16883412) by [inkncoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkncoffee/pseuds/inkncoffee). 



> Trigger Warning! Please look at the tags.
> 
> This work was heavily inspired by inkncoffee’s Blood(ied) Lines, because it’s one of the most unique and insightful works I’ve read on this site. I can’t praise it enough.
> 
> Lots of love,  
> withfeeling

The first time Jeongin had heard about bloodletting was sometime during his first year of middle school, probably in history class. He remembered it being the first interesting topic he had learned about that entire semester. It just seemed so absurd, that people dying of the plague believed that by letting a strange cloaked man in a bird mask bleed them out they could be saved. Jeongin had shuddered at the mere thought of it.

Once the bell rang signaling the end of class, any perturbed thoughts of such a seemingly archaic practice had vanished from his mind.

A little over a year later, he was diagnosed with hemochromatosis, a fancy word for a disease that basically meant he had too much iron in his blood. He was _lucky_ , the doctors had said, that they had caught it before it could cause his liver or heart to fail. Of course, there was a catch to his supposed luckiness; he’d have to go to the doctor’s office every few months and let them bleed him out so that he wouldn’t die.

Therapeutic phlebotomy, or TP, the nurse had called it. She had tried her best to erase any notions that Jeongin had associating it with 14th century bloodletting. Her efforts were futile, because until the very last moment, Jeongin was thoroughly convinced that a European man with a beak was going to burst through the examination room’s doors and take his blood forcefully. Like any other middle school boy, Jeongin was a bit disappointed when a regular, boring doctor in latex gloves walked in the room.

He tried not to show how much he was let down by the boring blue band they tied on his upper arm, or by the puny little needle they poked the inside of his elbow with. Nevertheless, he thanked the doctor briefly at the end of his appointment, and was told he’d have to come back in 4 months.

He could always feel when it was getting close to the time when he’d need to get his blood taken again; he’d start to feel fatigued and heavier, as if he had put on 10 kilos overnight and just couldn’t move quite as well. It sucked a lot in the last week leading up to his appointment, but leaving the hospital with half a liter less of blood, he felt right as rain again.

As he got closer to entering high school, agencies started to scout him and he started to go to auditions. He begged his mom not to tell the agency that took him about his health condition; he didn’t want to be unable to achieve his dream just because an agency was afraid of having idols with known diseases. Against her better judgement she agreed to keep it a secret, as long as he promised to make sure he got to his TP appointments. After a grateful hug, he assured her he’d never deviate from his 4 month bloodletting schedule.

For all of his time as a trainee under JYP, Jeongin held up his end of the deal with his mom. He went to every single TP appointment, even though he was busy as a trainee and his mom wasn’t there to nag him, he understood that it was something he had to do. It was like going to the orthodontist to get his braces tightened: sure, it was unpleasant, but it was also necessary. However, once Stray Kids debuted, it became increasingly difficult to make time for his appointments. Since he could go 4 months in between appointments, it became easier to let 4 months turn into 5, and so on. He always got there eventually, but it was only after his exhaustion became unmanageable, or he scared himself into going by thinking about the damage he was probably doing to his liver.

When Stray Kids’ world tour was announced Jeongin was ecstatic, and motivated to work even harder to present his best self to their overseas fans. He worked out with Chan more often, went to more vocal and dance lessons, and diligently followed a nine-step skincare routine. When he boarded the plane for America, he knew he looked great, and was excited to show how much his skills had improved, but for some reason he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was forgetting something.

Jeongin was snuggling into Seungmin’s shoulder on the plane, prepared to take a long nap, when his stomach turned. He remembered the forgotten thing; he was one week overdue for a TP appointment. He felt okay, albeit a little sleepy, but he knew that over the coming weeks the iron in his blood would continue to build up, and slow him down; he couldn’t afford to weigh down his team, especially on a world tour.

Jeongin considered telling his team, but he knew it would just cause them to worry, and he was already burdensome enough. Every possible option he could think of to avoid having to tell his team seemed futile: he could try to make an appointment in America—he couldn’t speak English, or he could try not to eat food with iron—absolutely ridiculous: meat was delicious and it would seem suspicious anyway. There was no other option besides just gritting his teeth and dealing with it. He could fight through the fatigue—he had to.

His body had other plans.

“Jeongin, again! Come on, you can do it,” Felix called from the front of the stage, where he was monitoring Jeongin’s dance.

Jeongin ran through the steps again, but he just couldn’t get it right: the movements were there, but the feeling was not.

“It’s alright, let’s just take a break. Get some water, you’ll feel refreshed and then you’ll be great!” Felix cheered optimistically, clapping Jeongin on the back.

“I’m sorry,” Jeongin apologized. “I think I’m having an off-day.”

“More like an off week,” Minho muttered under his breath.

“Minho!” Jisung scolded, hitting his chest.

“I’m sorry—,” Minho began.

“No, don’t be sorry, it’s true,” Jeongin interrupted him. “I haven’t been at the top of my game, and it’s my fault. I’ll do better.”

“You’re doing your best, just make sure you eat enough and sleep well tonight,” Hyunjin ruffled his hair tenderly, he always had a soft spot for the team’s youngest.

Jeongin smiled, but he knew it didn’t reach his eyes. He always knew he was undeserving of his place on the team, but this just confirmed it; he had to be better.

Later that day, while the rest of his group was asleep, Jeongin sat on the closed toilet in his hotel room’s bathroom. He stared at his arms reproachfully, and wholeheartedly resented his stupid veins that had too much iron. But he knew what he had to do; he had to get the iron out. In the palm of his hand was a shiny, new razor blade.

At the doctor’s office, they always drew blood from the inside of his elbow. Jeongin didn’t trust himself to do a clean job, and didn’t want to worry anyone who saw cuts on his arms. He supposed that blood is blood no matter what body part it leaks from, so it shouldn’t really matter where he cuts to get rid of it. He decided his thighs would be the least obvious place.

Jeongin wasn’t scared of blood, in fact he was generally numb to the sight of it after so many bloodletting appointments. However, Jeongin was still apprehensive. Was this really the best option?

 _Yes_ , _stop_ _burdening_ _your_ _team_ , _idiot_. He decided, and made the first cut, feeling the skin separate fiber by fiber beneath the metal blade, as he dragged it across his leg. He stood in the shower and watched the red liquid run down his leg and onto white marble tiles.

At the doctor’s office, they normally took half a liter, but Jeongin doubted he could get that much. He decided anything was better than nothing, and made another cut—deeper this time. It hurt more, but it also bled more, so Jeongin was satisfied.

After a few minutes of just standing there like a fool and bleeding, Jeongin decided it was good enough and began to clean up. His leg hurt, but he felt lighter so he proudly decided it had worked. He was a _genius_. He’d  
easily be able to make it through the tour successfully—if not longer. He felt invigorated and energized, on a sort of adrenaline high; he felt like he could run a mile.

Jeongin smiled in the mirror, and wondered why he hadn’t thought of this sooner.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning! Please take a look at the tags and be gentle with yourself <3
> 
> Hope everyone reading this has a lovely day!!

“Be right back!” Jeongin called over his shoulder, forcing a cheerful smile, as he ran to the restaurant’s bathroom for the third time during that meal.

 

He locked the stall door behind him, and pulled down his jeans. _Crap,_ the cuts had opened again, and were throbbing painfully. They weren’t bleeding _much,_ but the gauze on his leg must have been too thin, since it was already soaked with red. His jeans were a dark blue, but he still worried that it might bleed through and show. Since they had a concert that night, Jeongin was especially worried what could happen to his leg during a rigorous rehearsal and performance—he’d have to bandage it better before then.

 

His leg was a bloody mess of last night’s gauze, and toilet paper from the restaurant’s bathroom, which he had used in a useless attempt to try to bandage his leg better. His stomach turned at the sight; it was absolutely gruesome. Luckily, there was nothing in his stomach to throw up, since he had been hardly at the table for the entirety of breakfast. He supposed it wasn’t a bad thing; the less he ate, the less iron he ate, the better.

 

* * *

  


“Guys, I’m worried about Jeongin,” Chan glanced nervously at Jeongin’s back as he disappeared into the bathroom again.

 

“Why?” Changbin said through a mouthful of waffle.

 

“Ew. Don’t talk while you’re eating,” Minho rolled his eyes. “Really, don’t worry, Chan. He’s probably just sick, maybe the food isn’t agreeing with him, or maybe it’s the stress of the tour. He’s young, you know he doesn’t cope well with stress.”

 

“Yeah, but…” Chan sighed and looked down; his food didn’t seem very appetizing anymore. “You don’t think he’s _making_ himself sick, right?”

 

Woojin started to choke on his water, so Seungmin clapped him on the back.

 

“God Chan, give a guy a warning,” Woojin finally stopped choking, but his voice still sounded strained. “No, I don’t think Jeongin is bulimic. We spend literally every second together, I’m sure we’d notice if he had a problem.”

 

“Yeah I guess,” Chan didn’t push the topic further, but still couldn’t quell his worry. He didn’t know why, but he still felt like something was wrong.

 

Chan kept an eye on Jeongin throughout that day, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary, until dance practice. The day prior, Jeongin had been unable to nail certain parts of the choreography due to more technical elements. Unlike that incident, Chan noticed that Jeongin wasn’t completely trying; he was moving slowly and gingerly as if he was trying to be careful. If Chan didn’t know better he would have thought Jeongin had gotten beat up.

 

“Jeongin, are you okay? You’re moving weird today.”

 

Jeongin felt like a deer in the headlights beneath Chan’s piercing gaze.

 

“Yeah, I’m good!” Jeongin chirped. “My legs are just hurting a bit. I probably pulled a muscle or something.”

 

“Don’t push yourself too hard!” Seungmin came over to hug and coddle the youngest, “We need you in top shape for our show tonight.”

 

“Get your sweaty hand off my face,” Jeongin laughed, pushing at Seungmin’s shoulder playfully, as he forced the image of perfect normalcy.

 

Chan seemed satisfied with Jeongin’s explanation of sore muscles, so Jeongin relaxed. Still, Jeongin frowned slightly, he thought he was doing well during practice—apparently not. It was probably the iron, weighing him down. He didn’t want to cut again that day, but he knew he had to; he couldn’t let down his team and he couldn’t let down Stays. A little pain was worth it.

 

Before the show, he rushed to the stadium’s bathroom with a razor blade up his sleeve, wrapped in tissues so it wouldn’t look suspicious. The others were in the dressing rooms having last-minute snacks and Gatorades to ensure their energy and strength during the concert. As Jeongin made the first cut, he figured he was doing the same; he felt better already.

 

This time, however, he took greater care in diligently cleaning up his leg with peroxide and meticulously bandaging it. He couldn’t afford a single mistake.

 

* * *

 

 

“Good job, Jeongin!”

 

“You’ve improved so much!”

 

His older bandmates congratulated him after their first show in the states. It went better than Jeongin could have even hoped for; he hit every note and nailed the choreography. He wondered if it was because his blood had less iron; or maybe he was also still high on the euphoria of doing something he knew he shouldn’t. He knew a lot of people struggled with self harm, and that it was a genuine problem for them. Jeongin knew he wouldn’t become like that, he just needed to bleed a little bit and get the filthy iron out of his blood.

 

Once they returned from the stadium, Jeongin went straight to the hotel’s gym. His veins were thrumming with adrenaline and he needed to occupy himself. The gym was empty and silent, except for the quiet mechanical whirring of the air conditioning. Most of the members were probably in their rooms decompressing after the show, and Felix was strictly forbidden from working out until he had further progressed in his eating disorder recovery—but still Jeongin was surprised that the gym was completely empty.

 

Normally, when he went to the gym with Chan and Changbin, he’d focus mostly on weight training. Tonight, however, Jeongin needed cardio. He bypassed the racks of dumbbells and instead stepped onto the treadmill. He increased the incline and speed to one where he was struggling to keep up. Near the end of his first kilometer, Jeongin began to feel weak and lightheaded. He hadn’t eaten much that day—just a few pieces of fruit and some bread—in order to avoid ingested iron, but he figured that couldn’t be it; the iron that had been built up over the past 4 months contaminating his blood must have been weighing him down. It didn’t make sense; he already had cut that day, he shouldn’t have felt so tired. Did he need to get rid of _more_ iron?

 

Jeongin willed himself to continue, even though he felt heavy with lethargy. His legs felt rubbery and each step was harder than the one before.

 

Another hour passed before Jeongin stumbled out of the gym and into the elevator. He pressed the button for his floor, and leaned against the wall. The light above his head was harsh, so Jeongin stared at it as his chest heaved and he willed himself to stay awake.

 

He swiped the keycard for his room, and quietly opened the door. He saw Hyunjin sound asleep in one of the beds, but all the lights were still on and the armchair in the corner looked crinkled as if someone had been sitting there. Jeongin’s gut clenched with guilt when he realized Hyunjin must have been waiting up for him.

 

 _Selfish,_ Jeongin scolded himself, as he locked the bathroom door and turned on the shower.

 

Hot showers were always something that Jeongin craved after a concert and working out, since it soothed his muscles. At home, in the dorms, Jeongin had tried to convince himself that he liked cold showers to make the most of his situation, because with nine people in one apartment there never was any hot water to enjoy.

 

His cuts, which were still red and bleeding, stung under the spray of hot water. The pain cleared his mind which was foggy with fatigue. Jeongin wondered if he needed to cut more, to get rid of the iron, or if his exhaustion was just natural after a three hour concert. Unraveling the tissues which hid his the blade, Jeongin decided he would cut—just a little. He didn’t want to take any chances; what if the iron slowed him down again? If he ruined a performance he would face serious consequences. He didn’t think he would be kicked out of Stray Kids, or put on hiatus, but the uncertainty of potential consequences urged his blade deeper.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I write I face the same problem: should I use the metric system or the imperial system in my writing? 
> 
> I’m American (I live in NYC) so I usually use imperial units of measurement. In Korea they use the metric system, and I’m writing about Korean people so I usually use the metic system. 
> 
> But here’s the problem: when I use metric units I need to always convert to imperial first, because I have no clue how great the mass or distance is that I’m talking about.
> 
> Inner me when writing: “A mile is almost 20 football fields, but what about a kilometer?”
> 
> Y’all catch my drift, lol!


End file.
